


Cabin Fever

by RiskyBiznu



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Cold Weather, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Elvis Presley Songs, Snowball Fight, based on the vague premise set up by "End of the Line", there is no plot only fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 12:32:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19062769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiskyBiznu/pseuds/RiskyBiznu
Summary: Scout's finally got the perfect chance to put the moves on Sniper: a stakeout mission in a snowy cabin, just the two of them.





	1. Departure

**Author's Note:**

> So, in that short, "End of the Line", what the hell were these two mercs doing in an otherwise empty cabin out in the snowy wilderness? My theory is... kissing, probably.
> 
> And if you're curious, yes, I started writing this when it actually was cold outside. Then I put it on the back-burner for about half a year and just now wrangled it into a finished piece. At long last, without further ado, enjoy!

About one week ago, Scout and Sniper had been informed that they were to be stationed in a freezing little cabin, out in the middle of scenic snowy God-knows-where, to keep an eye on some iced-over train tracks. The word on the wind was that BLU had plans to put those tracks to use for shipping supplies and ammunition along a crucial path through the mountains, and Sniper and Scout were to be on the lookout for said supplies. They’d monitor the tracks for two weeks and end up with a decently predictable train schedule that could be later used for hijacking and ambush purposes.

At least, that’s the official story. During the week he has to pack and prepare, Scout swears up and down that they’d done _something_ to upset the Administrator, or someone else high up on the food chain, and that this is their cruel and unusual punishment. Sniper doesn’t really believe that— normally any serious punishment was much more straightforward, like washing some eighteen-wheelers by hand or losing dessert privileges— but he does get a slight kick out of working up Scout's paranoia over it.

“Maybe they found out you’re the one who drew all those dicks in the wet cement up at Gorge.”

“Don’t even _say_ that! We didn’t have any ice cream on the base for two months! If the Admin finds out it was me… I don’t even wanna think about it.”

Sniper knows it’s much more simple than that. He has a reputation for being cooped up in confined spaces for long periods of time, and Scout is so caffeinated that he's surprisingly good at stakeouts, so it only makes sense that they’d be paired up for a task like this.

The last few nights before leaving for the assignment, Scout can hardly sleep. Why Sniper, of all people? He’s been nursing the most awkward crush on Sniper for months now-- basically since Miss Pauling had pulled him aside and told him she’s not really into men whatsoever. It stung like a bitch, sure, but after a while, he recovered and reluctantly accepted his fate with her. _Then_ he realized he’d already subconsciously replaced that hole in his heart with something tall and Australian.

He's been eyeballing Sniper from across the dinner table every night since July, when he'd found out the guy could play a mean saxophone. Sniper had been hassled by Soldier into a vaguely Hendrix-esque performance of “The Star-Spangled Banner” on the 4th, and after he'd complied with Scout’s request for some disco and soul hits, Scout was smitten. Every time Sniper smiles, Scout feels his heartbeat run faster than his legs ever could.

Maybe he just needs someone to fill his ogling quota now that Pauling is out of the picture, and Sniper is just the least ugly member of the team.

Or maybe Scout actually really digs the accent, and the hoarse laugh, and the way he always has his glasses on kinda crooked...

Now he’s going to be stuck in a cabin with stupid sexy Sniper, just the two of them, without 7 other mercs as a distracting buffer in-between. Scout’s worried so sick he feels he might barf when he hops into the shotgun seat of Sniper’s dinky little campervan.

Meanwhile, Sniper's not nearly as anxious. He's just happy to finally spend some quality time with Scout.

* * *

 

For the first hour or so of driving, Scout has been so nervous that he's run his mouth seemingly nonstop since departure.

“...And that reminds me of this other, _other_ time we all went camping, oh man. There was ants, and the bathrooms were out of order, and the sprinklers went off in the morning! But I gotta tell you that later. I don't wanna jinx anything and find out the cabin is fulla ants or whatever.”

Sniper nods hesitantly. The bit about the sprinklers strikes him as an interesting story, so he’s a bit sad that Scout is skipping over it.

“Anyway, long story short…”

Sniper cracks a grin and nods again. “Very long story.”

“I’m not actually a huge fan of like, camping or cabins or anything. Wilderness stuff in general.”

“More of a hotel man yourself, huh?”

 _“Seriously._ Hotels mean there’s stuff nearby, like buildings and whatever, which means stuff to do. Camping means, what, rocks and trees? Some deer? Pfff. No thank you, pal.”

“If you ask me, I think it all depends on the company.”

“Company, schmompany.”

“Nah, really. Can’t be that bad if you’re with someone you like.”

Scout glances over and sees that even though Sniper is staring ahead at the road, he’s smiling. “Maybe.” He can’t help but smile too.

“And don’t worry; I’ll be good company as long as you let me have my coffee on time in the morning, and a nap in the afternoon.”

“And more coffee after the nap, I bet?”

“Exactly. See, we’re gonna get along great these two weeks.”

Scout laughs a little, with just a twinge of nervousness. He’s worried he might mess everything up, even though Sniper is probably right.

There’s a quiet pause, during which Sniper fiddles with the van's radio controls. After a few words from the radio host, a somewhat bossa-nova song comes on.

“So…” Scout thinks very hard about something cool and witty to say. “You like… music?”

The lyrics on the radio chide him: _Only a fool would say that…_

Scout frowns. “I mean, y’know. What kinda music do you listen to?”

Sniper laughs at the silly phrasing. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out when you’re stuck with me for two weeks.”

Scout prays that Sniper isn’t secretly into country.

* * *

 

When they arrive at the cabin-turned-base, Scout eagerly busies himself with unpacking as a way to avoid awkward conversation for as long as possible. He hauls out box after box of foodstuffs, trudging through the snow and piling them up in the cabin’s meager kitchen area, his face red from the cold and embarrassment alike.

Sniper, meanwhile, is glad to see Scout so eager to help with unpacking. He's surprised, he thinks as he carries in his saxophone case— he thought he was going to have to resort to bribery.

After they’ve brought in all their food and suitcases, Scout and Sniper take a look around.

The living space is stuffy, with low ceilings, cobwebs in the corners, and half-empty weapon crates stacked up among the scarce furnishings. There’s a fireplace, a couch, and a reclining armchair, plus a few makeshift work desks made with plywood nailed across more crates. A cluttered bookshelf sits between the fireplace and a kitten-themed wall calendar from two years ago. The “kitchen table” is a collapsible card table, surrounded by a few mismatched and slightly rusty folding chairs. In the back is a bathroom and a bedroom with a few neatly made bunk-beds.

Scout huffs. The place seems like it’s been designed to give antsy people like him a bad case of cabin fever.

Evidently, Sniper is thinking the same thing. “You gonna be alright in these close quarters?”

“Yeah, sure, sure. I’ll just, uh, go for a run or something if it gets too bad.”

“You’d get frostbite, mate. Snow’s about a foot deep out there.” Sniper sits down inelegantly on the worn-looking armchair. “Looks like you’re stuck inside with me.” He smiles mischievously.

“Guess I’ll just jog in place for two weeks straight…” Scout drags his suitcase off to the bedroom. He dumps out all his clothes onto the bottom bunk of one bed, then fishes out the sketchbook that he’s brought. He thumbs through it, and between a few pages of unflattering doodles of his fellow mercs, he rediscovers something: the notes he took during those three awful days of Spy’s casanova class. The words are hastily scrawled with all-capitals handwriting in a variety of angles and sizes, like the ravings of a lunatic, across five or six pages.

 _“DINNER, DANCING, DEMEANOR,”_ in large block-letters, with stars doodled around it.

 _“LADIES DON’T EAT FRIED CHICKEN???”_ This is next to a sketch of Spy choking on a fork, which is cartoonishly silhouetted sideways in his throat.

 _“WALTZ,”_ underlined thrice. A sad Tom Jones face, with a single tear running down his cheek, is crossed out next to it with a big red X.

 _“KISS HERE,”_ with an arrow pointing to a bullseye on the back of a feminine hand. _“CLASSY!”_

And so on. The doodles of Spy make him chuckle, but otherwise, he knows these are absolutely useless notes. They hardly even worked on Pauling— how could they possibly work on Sniper? Scout knows he’s going to need an entirely new game plan.

He places his sketchbook on the top bunk and scrambles up after it, then reclines against a pillow and flips to the next blank page.

He scrawls out a title in block-letters: _“AMAZING PLAN TO WOO SNIPER.”_ Then he immediately blanks on what to write next. He thinks about it… and figures he may as well start off small. He begins a bullet list.

_“FACTS ABOUT SNIPER:”_

He taps the end of his pencil against his lip in thought.

  * _“LIKES COFFEE.”_ Easy. Scout would make the coffee for him every morning if he has to.


  * _“GOOD SENSE OF HUMOR.”_ Another easy one. Scout always felt their senses of humor line up pretty well; they both enjoy poking fun at other people, and together they just tease each other.


  * _“HANDSOME.”_ Scout thinks for a moment about it. Sniper probably doesn’t get called ‘handsome’ much these days, he figures. Not many of the mercs get out and meet new people very often. He also feels Sniper is an unusual kind of handsome, one that not a lot of people can appreciate like Scout can. He makes a note to himself: _“DRAW HIS PORTRAIT!”_


  * _“LIKES MUSIC?”_ This is a tricky one. The question mark certainly complicates things. He adds onto it: _“FIGURE OUT WHAT KIND... SHOW OFF DANCE MOVES.”_


  * _“LIKES TO LISTEN. BE WITTY WHEN TALKING. BRING A-GAME.”_


  * _“LIKES ME?”_



Scout sets down his pencil and really _focuses_ on that last one. He’s almost certain he’s right. Scout doesn’t mesh with the rest of the team too well, for reasons that completely elude him, and Sniper consciously _chooses_ not to mesh. He figures they’re a good match. Sniper doesn’t bicker with him the same way they both do with much of the rest of the team. They definitely bond over badmouthing Spy, too, which is always fun. He’s even invited Scout into his camper a couple times, usually to check out Scout’s most recent teammate caricatures without the real-life counterparts seeing them and taking offense.

Well, that’s always what Scout wants to do: show off his drawings. Now, sitting alone in his cabin bunk, he has a tiny moment of confusion and panic as he contemplates those van invitations.

Has Sniper been trying to hit on him the whole time?

Maybe, or maybe not, but Scout can't rule it out completely. He closes the sketchbook. He needs to really, really think about how he wants these two weeks to start off.


	2. Dinner

The first evening of the assignment passes uneventfully. Sniper reads several pages into a silverfish-nibbled copy of _The Iliad._

“Why did you pick _that?"_

“Longest book on the shelf that wasn’t an instruction manual.”

Scout doodles comics about their absent teammates, which he shows to Sniper at regular intervals to (always successfully) get a laugh.

“Look, look, it’s Medic sending Archimedes off to med school like _bye, son!_ ”

“You’re jokin’, but I bet he wishes he could do that.”

They keep generally quiet (which is very difficult for Scout) to make sure they can hear if a train comes, but not one ever goes by. They share a couple cans of soup for dinner and go to bed at an early hour under several layers of blankets. Sniper, out of politeness, picks his bed as one on the opposite side of the room as Scout.

The next morning, Scout awakens at the first hint of sunlight peeking into the cabin. He steps into the main room, shivering, with one of his blankets wrapped around his shoulders and lightly grazing the hardwood floor. His meager pajamas— drawstring pants with a long-sleeved promotional “RED Bread” shirt— aren’t warm enough to stave off the cold that had crept into the cabin overnight.

He settles down in front of the fireplace. First things first; he couldn’t be expected to do much of anything with one hand holding a blanket. He piles up some kindling in the middle of a few logs of firewood, and clicks a small lighter against it.

The fireplace roars to life soon afterwards, but Scout continues sitting there and absently rubbing his thumb against the lighter in thought. He knows he should make breakfast for Sniper if he wants to impress him, but at the same time, he knows they’re limited on food choices, and he seriously doubts he can knock it out of the park with stuff like canned peaches and lightly salted cashews. That useless old Spy didn’t prepare him for these sorts of limitations at all.

With a frustrated sigh, Scout leaves the blanket by the fireplace and rummages through the food boxes, the pantry, and the fridge they’d thrown a few perishable things into.

Sweet corn. Diced tomatoes. Tuna in water. These were all fine ingredients, but nothing really caught his eye, except for…

A pack of sausage in the fridge, an easy breakfast food. Scout may not be the best cook— his idea of “cooking for the team” is buying everyone some Chinese takeout— but he did learn from Engineer how to throw some eggs and sausage on a frying pan. He rubs his hands together excitedly.

He _could_ wait for Sniper to wake up… but then he’d lose the element of surprise. He sets to work so hastily that he nearly splatters raw egg all over the counter.

By the time he’s almost done, Sniper comes sleepily shambling into the room. He’s wearing his usual collared shirt, unbuttoned over a white undershirt, but from the waist down he’s wearing loose pajama pants and crocodile-themed slippers. “Oi, Scout… what’s all this about?”

“Oh, hey, Snipe! I’m cookin’!”

“Yeah, yeah, I can see that, it’s just… you cook so rarely I was startin’ to think you just don’t know how.”

“Hard-hat taught me a few things.”

“That explains a lot. Smells like when it’s his turn at cookin’ breakfast.”

“Is it the garlic?”

“It’s the garlic.” Sniper sniffs the air. “You started the coffee, too?”

“Well, yeah, I know how you basically need that stuff to live.”

Sniper isn’t exactly sure how to respond to the gesture. “That’s… real kind of ya, Scout. I thought I was gonna have to do it myself and fall back asleep on the couch waitin’ for it.”

“One of these days, you gotta admit you have a _problem,_ man.” Scout cracks a grin. “I bet the coffee smell pulled you outta bed, like one of those good smells in a cartoon… y’know what I mean?”

Two pieces of toast pop out of the toaster. “Actually, I woke up ‘cause you wouldn’t stop singin’ ‘What’s New Pussycat’.”

“Hey, how’s about you let me sing ‘What’s New Pussycat’ as much as I want while I’m slavin’ over this stove for ya? It’s only fair, Snipe.” Scout piles two plates full of hot eggs, toast, and sausage and brings them to the room’s lone rickety card table. “Fill up that Number One Sniper mug of yours and come get it while it’s hot!”

Sniper does exactly that, pulling up a folding chair that doesn’t quite match Scout’s and settling in for breakfast.

Stuffing his face with hot food gives Scout a moment to think. Did he just successfully _banter_ with Sniper? He ponders it, and realizes Sniper hasn’t once told Scout to shut up at any point during this assignment; not even when he was a captive audience in the camper van for the three-hour drive here. Huh. It’s a weird concept for Scout to consider. He’s used to being told to pipe down by the rest of the team. Even Pyro’s done it by covering their ears through their mask and walking off. To think that Sniper actually enjoys listening to what he has to say… it makes his heart skip a beat. It’s a nice feeling, being appreciated as a conversationalist. “So…” He idly pokes at a scrap of egg. “You look… good.”

Sniper looks surprised from behind his coffee mug. This morning just keeps getting better, he thinks.

“I mean, you look like you slept well. No dark circles or nothin’.”

He’s admittedly disappointed by the clarification. “Yeah, I did, actually. The beds here are a lot better than I thought they’d be. Still…” He takes another sip of coffee and chuckles. “Not exactly _long_ enough for me.”

“Oh, right, you’re like… crazy tall. I never thought about it like that.”

“Why else would I walk all the way out to my van to sleep every night? I put a ‘specially big bed in there for a reason. I like havin’ room to stretch.”

Scout giggles a little bit.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m just picturin’ you sleepin’ on a teeny-weeny bed with your whole head hangin’ off one end and your legs hangin’ off the other.”

“Imagine what it must be like for Heavy.”

Scout laughs so suddenly he nearly chokes on his food.

“I bet he custom-orders his beds.”

“Ha! Like that one president, the one who got stuck in a bathtub!”

It’s Sniper’s turn to almost choke laughing. He thumps his fist against his chest. “The _what?"_

“Yeah, yeah! I don’t remember his name, exactly… but there _was_ a president who was so fat he got stuck in his tub. He had his own giant-size one made for him after that.”

“That’s why they’ve only got showers on the bases, I bet. They didn’t want their heavy weapons guy havin’ the same luck.”

“That, and Spy would use all the hot water for _his_ baths.” Scout wrinkles up his nose and juts his chin out for a Spy impression. _“Oh hon hon, I need my beauty bath. I refuse to be as ugly as the rest of you.”_

“He’d light a million candles in the bathroom, too.”

“And play romantic music for himself.”

“He acts like he’s so fancy.” Sniper scoffs.

“Exactly. _Acts._ ”

“Seriously. Eats the same food at the same table.”

“Oh man, speakin’ of which, I got a confession to make.”

“Yeah?”

“Whenever I get takeout for the team… I always eat stuff out of Spy’s order on the way back to the base.”

“You’re an evil genius, mate. That snake _deserves_ to have his lo mein picked at.” Sniper smiles, then looks down at his own food thoughtfully. “You don’t eat any of mine, do ya?”

“What? Naw, Snipe, no way. I always give you the extra fortune cookies. After I give _myself_ some, obviously.”

“I was wonderin’ why they always end up in _my_ paper bag.”

“Ever get any accurate ones?”

“One time, yeah… I had one say _‘someone is watching you from afar’_. Then, I looked out the window and saw one of Soldier’s raccoons watchin’ me eat. Creepy little mongrels.”

“Aw, but I love their cute grabby paws. Always takin’ food that doesn’t belong to ‘em.”

“You like ‘em ‘cause you relate to ‘em, I bet.”

“Hey, you can’t say it’s okay to take food from Spy, and then tease me for it!”

“Oh, yes, I can. Where do all those extra calories go, anyway?” Sniper gestures at Scout’s midsection with his fork. “Same with all that candy you eat. Just disappears in your bottomless pit of a stomach.”

“It goes right here!” Scout flexes his biceps.

Sniper laughs hoarsely. “You call those muscles?” He sheds his iconic shirt to reveal the white tank underneath, and flexes in the same way as Scout. “ _These_ are muscles.”

Scout can’t help but give the tiniest gasp. They certainly are…

Sniper slips his shirt back on. “Climbing up to those nests is a hell of a workout.”

“Is that why you like sittin’ still up there for so long?” Scout gives a smug look. “One climb and you’re beat?”

“You’re just jealous that I get to sit down for my job while you gotta run nonstop.”

“Hey, I like runnin’! You’d trip over those giant boots of yours tryin’ to keep up with me.”

“I’m sure I would.” Sniper sips the last of the coffee from his mug. “Damn shame you can’t go runnin’ around out here. Do us both a favor and don’t have any of those soft drinks of yours while we’re here.”

“I didn’t even bring any, I swear.”

“Scout, I saw the case of ‘em you brought in.”

“Okay, so maybe I did.”

“You get too antsy in here, I’ll throw you out into the snow myself.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior!”

“Good, good.” Sniper pushes his chair back and stands up, plate in hand. “You certainly have been so far. This really was a delightful breakfast, kid.”

“I— really?”

“Of course. Served hot, plenty of protein, didn’t taste bad. I’m impressed. You should cook for me more often.” Sniper smirks.

“Sure thing, pally… if you’ll do the dishes for me.” Scout leans back proudly and holds out his empty plate for Sniper.

He takes it and grins. “You’re damn lucky those eggs weren’t burnt, mate.”


	3. Dancing

Just after lunch on the third day, Sniper takes a moment to gaze out a window. He’s wearing a slightly different collared shirt with his usual slacks. “Well, lad, I hate to break it to ya, but I need your help. I’ve gotta get somethin’ out of the van, and it looks like quite a bit of snow fell since breakfast.” He drinks his warm coffee, feeling chilly at the thought of going outside. “You’ll have to help me shovel some of it.”

“Uuugh. But it’s so _cold_ out there. I don’t wanna go out.” Scout is curled up on the couch, still clad in the sweatpants and Bonk shirt he’d slept in, wrapped in his blanket from his neck downward.

Sniper looks out the window again, then walks towards the coat rack to put on a few extra layers. “Well, then I guess you don’t wanna see the _surprise_ I brought along for us.”

Scout perks up. “Surprise? What is it?”

“It’s a surprise, mate.” Sniper winks from behind his tinted glasses.

That does it. Scout can’t handle the curiosity, and throws the blanket off defiantly, knowing full well that Sniper just played him like a fiddle. He throws on two more jackets, one of which might be Sniper’s, and pulls on his boots.

Grimacing, Sniper opens the cabin’s front door and is hit with a blast of snowy wind. “Damn _,_ it’s cold.”

Scout follows him, grabbing the two snow shovels from near the door, and handing one to Sniper. He shivers. “No kiddin’!”

“You should’ve put some _real_ pants on.”

“Real pants, my ass. These _are_ real pants.”

“Can’t be real warm,though.”

“Unlike _some_ people, I wasn’t raised in a desert. I’ll be fine!”

They dig their way out of the cabin, and then half-ass a path to the van, at which point Scout’s teeth are chattering. When the van itself is finally excavated, Sniper retrieves a plain cardboard box from a high compartment, then locks up again. He glances over at Scout proudly, and thinks he looks rather cute with his face all red like that.

They trudge back to the cabin. When they get inside, Scout throws the shovels down aggressively, glad to be done with them for the time being. Then, he dives back into his blanketed spot on the couch. “Alright, Snipe. What’s the freakin’ surprise?”

Sniper carefully sets the box down on an empty crate near the armchair, his back to Scout. For dramatic effect, he _very_ slowly takes something out of the box, then turns around and holds the item out proudly: a vinyl record, the red-orange sleeve of which reads _Elvis’ Golden Records_ in a bold white font. A portrait of the artist shoots Scout a proud smirk.

Scout snorts. “You made me freeze my ass off just so we could get your Elvis collection?”  
  
“You watch your bloody mouth.” Sniper strokes the record sleeve lovingly. “He’s got a nice voice, mate. You oughta show some respect. And bring me that li’l record player I saw in the bedroom.”

Scout obliges, running off and returning with a portable turntable in his hands. He gently places it on the kitchen table. “Why’d you wanna get this outta the van so bad?”

“All this quiet is gonna drive me insane.” Sniper puts the record in place and starts it up, then adjusts the volume. “We’ll play it soft enough that we can still hear any passin’ BLU trains.”

“Pfff. We both know there’s no trains comin’.”

“I’d just like to pretend I’m not stuck out here for nothin’.” Sniper smiles. “But it’s been nice so far.”

Scout blushes brightly.

“Plus, maybe some music will help ya really get in a good state of mind for all your drawin’.”

Scout feels his face get even hotter. He knows what sort of subject matter Elvis Presley’s songs are typically about. He nods nervously and returns to the couch, picking up his sketchbook from the floor.

Sniper snaps his fingers as ‘Hound Dog’ starts up, shimmying a bit to the rhythm as he paces back to the armchair.

Scout can’t help but laugh a tiny bit. He looks like such a dork. Is that what he calls dancing?

“What, are you laughin’ at me?”

“Heh… uh, no! Not at all!”

“You were laughin’ at me, kid!” Sniper’s trying not to grin himself. He knows he looks goofy when he ‘dances’, but he’s comfortable enough around Scout that, for once, he’s not feeling insecure.

“No, honest! And, hey, quit callin’ me ‘kid’! I’m twenty-six! How old even are you, anyway?”

“…Thirty-one.”

“Exactly.”

“You still act like a kid, though. You’re twenty-six, goin’ on fifteen.”

“I don’t!”

“Yes you do! You read comics all day and basically live off sugar.”

“Yeah, well, you dance like… like a dad. A real awkward dad.”

“I bet I dance better than you, though, you twitchy hooligan.”

“Bet not. I actually learned how to do the freakin’ _waltz."_

“The waltz? _Ha!_  You’re jokin’!”

“No, honest! Learned it from Spy. Remember when that bread attacked?”

“Does that have anythin' to do with when you said that Spy was better than you over the intercom?”

“Y-yeah. Long story. But the point is— I can waltz.”

Sniper doesn’t know what else to say besides what he instinctively blurts out: “Oh yeah? Show me.”

“Alright. Maybe I will!” Scout jumps up from the couch, then grabs Sniper’s right hand and yanks him up to his feet.

Sniper stands there, frozen a few inches from Scout, pulse racing. He didn't think that comment through.

Tentatively, Scout holds out his left hand. “Alright, so, you put your hand on top of mine.”

“That’s the lady’s way.”

“And?”

“I’m taller _and_ older than you.”

“You wanted me to show you I can waltz, and _I_ sure as hell didn’t learn it the lady’s way. C’mon, don’t be such a wuss.”

Sniper sucks in a breath, rolls his eyes, and holds Scout’s hand.

“Okay, now I’m just gonna…” Scout reaches around and pats the small of Sniper’s back with his right hand. Sniper is wearing two shirts and a coat, but the contact still feels absurdly intimate. Scout grits his teeth and gives another pat, like what he and the rest of the mercs do during hugs to make them feel a bit manlier. “Now just…” Scout averts eye contact. “Put your hand on my shoulder.”

Sniper does so, somewhat amused by how patronizing the gesture seems when he’s that much taller than Scout.

“So it’s basically a one-two-three kinda thing. You just copy what I’m doing and walk with me, and _don’t_ step on my freakin’ feet, or I swear…”

They fumble for a bit at first, because ‘All Shook Up’ isn’t exactly waltz music, but eventually Sniper gets his two left feet in working order and he’s able to follow Scout’s lead well enough.

They loop around the room a few times, dodging the furniture successfully, if somewhat awkwardly. The smoother it goes, the bigger Scout's proud grin gets. “Hehey, now we got it!”

Scout throws in a twirl. He nearly flings Sniper into a half-empty crate of minigun bullets, but somehow he pulls the move off and brings Sniper back in without losing the rhythm too much.

Sniper’s been watching their feet and surroundings the whole time, careful to avoid eye contact, lest Scout notice how much he’s enjoying this.

Eventually, Scout can’t help it— he’s just feeling this waltz a little too much. As soon as Elvis coos, _I’m proud to say that she’s my buttercup…_

Scout holds Sniper tight and dips him.

_I’m in love! I’m all shook up!_

Immediately, he panics and drops Sniper to the floor. Sniper makes an unflattering _GAH!_ sound as he hits the rug with a thump.

“Aw, crap! Snipe, I am _so sorry!_ I just, y’know, you’re kinda heavier than I was expectin’ and I lost my grip.”

“Naw, it’s alright…” Sniper groans and sits upright on the worn-looking rug. “That… really was somethin’, Scout.”

“You think so?” Scout feels his heart flutter, both at the compliment _and_ at the fact that he wasn’t called ‘kid’ or ‘hooligan’ this time.

“Yeah, I take it back. You really _can_ dance.” Sniper hoists himself up and plops back down onto the far end of the couch, and Scout takes notice of the fact that he’s got a huge grin on his face for someone who was just dropped on the floor.

“Hey, thanks!” Scout beams at him and grabs the sketchbook he’d abandoned earlier. “I’ll, uh, go ahead and let you listen without any more interruptions.” He settles into the opposite end of the couch.

“Sounds good to me. And, hey, show me what you end up drawing.” Sniper gives a thumbs-up and reopens his copy of _The Iliad_ from yesterday, starting at a dog-eared page about one-quarter of the way through.

Scout decides he absolutely _must_ draw the pleased look on Sniper’s face. He begins sketching hastily, not particularly caring if Sniper notices his staring.

Thankfully, he doesn’t. Sniper’s full attention is on the book, and eventually his smile fades into a look of intense focus as he furrows his brows and tries to keep track of all the Greek proper-nouns being thrown around.

Luckily, by that point, Scout has sketched the smile and moved onto a second, more detailed portrait. This time, it’s full-body. He lovingly renders Sniper’s likeness in a very angular, almost polygonal semi-realism. It’s all he can do to resist drawing little hearts around Sniper’s head. When that sketch is done, he begins a third.

Eventually, Sniper looks up, intrigued by how consistently and aggressively Scout’s pencil has been going _scritch-scritch-scritch._

‘Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear’ fades into the slow croon of ‘Love Me Tender’, and when Scout glances up to reference Sniper’s pose again, they make eye contact.

Sniper holds the gaze for a second or two, then wordlessly averts it back to _The Iliad._

Scout can’t help but pout for a moment. No way is some million-year-old poem about angry dudes in togas _so_ interesting that Sniper isn’t curious about seeing the drawings. But, then again, he isn’t sure how he’ll react if he _is_ asked to show them. His stomach sinks at the thought of Sniper calling him a weirdo for drawing the man without his knowledge.

He’s totally startled when Sniper pipes up: “So, you drawin’ me?”

“Um… maybe.”

“Lemme see it.”

Scout sheepishly holds up the sketchbook page like he just got caught misbehaving. He’s very, very glad he didn’t draw those little hearts.

Sniper has a look of genuine shock. “Looks just like me! How did you _do_ that?”

“Uh… very carefully.”

“Well, that’s certainly obvious. Hand it here.”

Scout winces and hands it over, sure that Sniper is going to tear out the page and crumple it up.

Sniper just gawks at the page. “This is _amazin’_. Probably the biggest compliment anyone’s ever given me, I think.” He isn’t sure how else to phrase the fact that he’s always considered himself too unattractive to warrant a self-portrait. “You even added my scar!”

“Course I did!” Scout wants to add, _'it’s cute’,_ but thinks better of it. “It looks cool on ya.”

“Can I put this on the fridge?”

“Hell yeah, you can put it on the fridge!”

Sniper can’t help but smile along with Scout; he gently tugs the page from the sketchbook and rises out of his seat. He steps into the kitchen, plucks a large magnet reading _“GREETINGS FROM TEUFORT, NM”_ off the avocado-green fridge, and with it tacks the page of Sniper sketches to the refrigerator’s freezer door. “There we go.” He turns back to look over at Scout, grinning. “Still looks pretty empty there. You got any more drawings of me we can decorate it with?”

“I think what it needs now is _my_ face. I mean, really, look at this.” Scout taps the eraser of his pencil against his cheek for emphasis.

Sniper huffs a laugh. “Cute.”

Scout drops his pencil in surprise, then immediately attempts to play that off coolly. “U-um, I think you mean _handsome,_ or _manly."_  He's overcome with a wash of embarrassment. Cute? Sniper just _complimented_ his _face,_  and he chose ‘cute’ of all words?

“I know what I said.” Sniper winks, hands back the sketchbook, and resumes his place on the couch and in _The Iliad._

Scout stares down at the next blank page, his face warm and his heartbeat quick. _Cute,_ he thinks. _I’ll take it._


	4. Demeanor

Sniper jolts awake to a burst of cold against his chest. He jumps out of the armchair at once and sees a small pile of snow slide off his stomach and hit the rug at his feet, some splashes of cold water left behind on his shirt.

“Yo, Snipe, have a good nap?”

 _"Scout!_  What the bloody hell was that about?”

“Oh, heh, I got bored about half an hour into your nap and went out into the snow. _Then_ I wanted you to come out in the snow with me, so I decided to, y’know, wake you up.”

“By hitting me with a snowball?”

“Hey, it worked, didn't it?” Scout chucks another snowball, splattering it against Sniper’s upper arm.

 _"Gah!_ Why? I’m already awake!”

“Well, I made two snowballs.”

Sniper grumbles and halfheartedly brushes off the front of his shirt— the damp spot lingers. “Can I at least have some coffee first?”

“Sure thing! Then you _gotta_ come see what I made!”

“Hope it’s not more snowballs.”

Scout simply laughs and dips back outside, shutting the cabin door behind him.

Sniper sighs and takes a long drink from his lukewarm coffee mug that's been sitting out since before his nap. Scout sure knows how to get his attention… by any means necessary. Regardless, Scout's enthusiasm is contagious. For once in his life, Sniper is actually somewhat eager to step outside into several inches of snow.

He carefully bundles up from head to toe and heads outside.

Scout is, to Sniper's relief, wearing more substantial winter gear than his pajamas-with-a-jacket look from yesterday, including a knit cap and an adorable little red scarf.

“Hey, is that my coat?”

“Uh, might be.”

“Keep it, since you got your sticky, sugary li’l hands all over it.” Sniper grins. He realizes he likes how Scout looks when borrowing clothes one size too big. “So, what've you been up to out here?”

“Only buildin’ the _best_ snowman ever! Feast your eyes!” Scout gestures excitedly to a snowman behind him: it's easily five feet tall and has been smoothed out with utmost perfectionism. Each of its three segments look impossibly perfect and round.

“She's a beaut, alright.” Sniper whistles. “How long did this take ya?”

“Well, let's just say your long-ass nap gave me a lot of time to kill.” Scout stands proudly with his hands on his hips, admiring his own artistry, then moves closer to further polish the snowman’s curves. He’s so engrossed in his own talent that he barely hears the _crunch, crunch_ of snowy footsteps behind him.

“Heads up!”

When the snowball smacks the back of his head, Scout nearly falls over. “What the—? _Snipe!”_ He scrambles to duck behind his snowman. “I thought you didn’t wanna have a snowball fight!”

“I didn’t wanna _lose_ a snowball fight.” Sniper packs another one and takes aim.

Scout dives out from behind his snowman, carrying a couple of snowballs in the crook of his left arm. “Too bad, tough guy.” He flings one out and, to his surprise, hits Sniper squarely in the face.

Sniper splutters and shakes his head. “So I take it headshots aren’t off-limits.”

“What, scared you’ll ruin your appetite by eatin’ too much snow?”

“I’m gonna freeze that button-nose right off your smilin’ face!” He grazes the top of Scout’s hat with his next shot.

Scout sprints zig-zagging circles around Sniper, dodging Sniper’s fire to the best of his ability and scrambling to gather up ammo without slowing down too much.

Sniper is impressed— perhaps even a little intimidated— by how Scout seems to just dance across the top of the snow while he himself has to trudge through it so sluggishly.

Sniper also finds out the hard way that perfect aim with a rifle does not necessarily translate into good aim with snowballs.

Eventually, however, he lands three headshots in a row without getting hit in between, decides he’s not going to do much better than that, and calls the war off.

“Aw, c’mon! You’re just mad you’re losin’.”

“I’m _not_ losin’. I’d say we’re pretty evenly matched.”

“Sore loser!” Scout sticks out his tongue.

“You’re just tryin’ to make me mad enough to start the whole thing up again.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, sorry, but I think I’ll freeze solid if I’m out here any longer. I gotta get back inside.”

“Meh, fair enough. I can’t feel my fingers anyway.”

Sniper holds the door open for Scout and gestures for him to come in. “Go on, do us both a favor and heat up some water on the stove.”

“What? How come?”

“I put some of that instant hot cocoa stuff in a food box somewhere. Figured now would be a good time to use it.”

Sniper barely finishes the word ‘cocoa’ before Scout rushes into the kitchen to dig through the food supplies in search of the promised sugary snack.

While he’s searching, Sniper fills a small red tea kettle with sink water and places it on the stovetop.

Scout proudly holds up the box of instant hot cocoa mix. “I found it!”

“And now you’ll just have to wait for the water to get hot.”

“Why can’t we use milk?”

“We didn’t bring any milk, that’s why.”

“Oh, right.” Scout sets down the box. “Hey, where are you goin’?”

Sniper is halfway to the fireplace. “Just gonna try and thaw myself out.” He grabs a throw pillow from the couch, then drops it on the floor in front of the warm fireplace before adding more firewood into the flames.

“That sounds pretty nice, actually...” Scout strolls over and joins him on the floor, sitting cross-legged without a cushion.

Basking in the heat of the fireplace, gradually shedding their extra layers of winter gear, they share a comfortable silence.

Finally, Scout speaks up again. “So… Snipe.”

“Mhm.”

“Yesterday, when you said this assignment’s been pretty nice or whatever… You meant it?”

“Course I meant it. Never thought I’d have more fun bein’ _with_ somebody than I would just bein’ alone.”

“Really? I was, uh, worried about bein’ annoying.”

“You’ve never seemed too worried about that before.” Sniper chuckles. “You’re always more than happy to be annoying back at the base.”

“Yeah, well… no, yeah, you’re right. But it’s different this time.” Scout shrugs. “I guess I just wanted to impress you or somethin’.”

 _"Impress_ me? You’ve impressed me, alright. You cooked breakfast, drew my portrait, danced the waltz… and held your own pretty well in a snowball fight.”

Scout beams at Sniper.

“You don’t have to impress me, though. Why would you even _want_ to?”

“Aw, jeez, I dunno… I just think you’re pretty cool, is all.”

Sniper smirks at the eloquence, or lack thereof. He and the other mercs have always known that Scout craves their attention and approval more than anything else… but it’s still rather gratifying, in a way, to hear Scout admit it outright. Still, it does upset him to see Scout so uncharacteristically sheepish.

“So, it’s… it’s nice that you think I’m alright.”

That melts his heart a little. “Scout, you’ve got a lot goin’ for ya. You’re the only bloke on this team with a decent sense of humor, for starters. Seems like everyone else is too crazy, mean, or drunk to really get me laughin’ the way you do.”

“And they’re too crazy, mean, and drunk to treat me like an _adult.”_ Scout scoots a little closer and leans his head on Sniper’s shoulder. “You’re the one guy takin’ me seriously, y’know?” He sighs a little, barely audible. “The rest just act like I’m a kid.”

“Scout, listen… I don’t care if the rest of the team thinks you’re some caffeine-addicted little brat who just needs to sit down and quit yubbin’ his big mouth—”

“They think that?”

“The _point_ is, Scout, I... I like spendin’ time with you. And I wanna _keep_ spendin’ quality time with you like this, even after this lousy assignment is done.”

“Oh my _gawd_ …” Scout’s jaw drops, and he sits bolt upright in shock. “You’re crushin’ on me.”

“Is... that the word you wanna go with?” Just like that, Sniper’s gone back to his professional poker-face.

“Yeah, you’re _crushin’_ on me! I _knew_ it! Well, I didn’t really know it, but I had an idea, and I was pickin’ up hints but I wasn’t totally sure and I was kinda freakin’ out and—” Scout catches his breath with a gasp. “Oh, _man._ Are you serious?”

“Well… it depends.” Behind his amber shooting-glasses, Sniper’s expression is still almost entirely unreadable. “Is that a good reaction or bad reaction?”

“Of course it's a good reaction, ya _dope!”_ Scout laughs loudly. “I’ve been comin’ onto ya the whole time, man. I busted out the big guns, and I thought nothin’ was gonna work on you.”

Sniper heaves a huge sigh of relief, his face promptly softening into a weary and lopsided smile. “I _thought_ you were enjoyin’ that waltz a little bit more than you should.”

“And you were _way_ too happy that I think you're handsome enough to draw.”

Sniper stifles a laugh. “Listen, I’m not sure what you want me to say about it, because I’m _no_ good with this sort of thing, this…” He gestures vaguely.

“Mushy stuff?”

“Mushy stuff. Heh. Yeah.”

“Well, lucky you, ‘cause I got enough charm for both of us.”

“Says the bloke who started panickin’ and talkin’ a million miles an hour when he found out I was _crushin’._ ”

“Alright, then gimme your hand, pal.”

Curious, Sniper holds out his hand.

Scout takes it gingerly and plants a delicate kiss on the back of it. Immediately afterward, he gives a smug smirk. “How's that for _charming?”_

“Layin' it on a bit thick there.” Sniper takes his hand from Scout and with it, lightly socks him in the upper arm. “I like it.”

Scout grins his widest grin ever, throws his arms around Sniper, and then seems perfectly content to stay latched on all day.

“Gotta say… and don't get mad at me for sayin' this… you’re so scrawny, I always thought huggin’ you would mean I’d get bones pokin’ into me at weird angles.” Sniper sighs. “But this is better than I thought.”

“I could say the same thing.” He nuzzles into Sniper. “Yeah, this is _real_ nice.”

Sniper ruffles his hair. In front of them, the fireplace crackles, tiny sparks of glowing ash drifting into the warmed air.

“So… what now?”

 _"Now,_ we take that water off the stove and share some hot cocoa.”

In that moment, the allure of sugar is probably the only thing that can get Scout to let go of Sniper.


	5. Denouement

Scout’s first thought when waking up is how sweaty and uncomfortable he is.

Scout’s _second_ thought hits him like an Australium frying pan: he’s sweaty and uncomfortable because he slept face-down directly on top of Sniper. He slept so well and so thoroughly, he’d almost forgotten about that.

In his defense, there wasn’t much else they could do, given their constraints. When someone wants to share a bed with someone else but all they have is twin-size bunk beds, they can’t exactly sleep _next_ to each other.

Scout peels himself off of Sniper, but before he can sit totally upright, Sniper grabs his shoulder and pulls him back down.

“It’s cold. Don’t get up.” Sniper’s voice is a low mumble, heavy with sleep.

Scout settles back in and gets cozy again, tucking his head under Sniper’s chin. Sniper is definitely onto something, Scout thinks; these brutal winter mornings aren’t so bad when he’s got such a convenient heat source below him. He fidgets with the front and neckline of Sniper’s top, a plain maroon long-sleeved v-neck.

Sniper sighs. “You wanna get up, don’t you?”

“Little bit, yeah.” Scout wriggles his legs for emphasis.

Hesitantly, Sniper pushes the blankets off of them.

Scout gives Sniper’s chest a reassuring _pat-pat-pat_ before he finally hops out of bed.

In Scout’s absence, Sniper drags the blankets back over himself, mumbling something about the cold.

“You’ll have to get up sometime, Snipe.”

“Yeah, nah.”

“If I made you coffee, would that help?”

“…It might.”

Laughing, Scout trots off to start the coffee.

* * *

 

By the time the coffee is ready, Sniper has shuffled out of bed and over to the couch. Scout brings him the filled Number One Sniper mug and sits next to him.

Sniper takes a long sip from the mug. “Did you know you kick when you sleep?”

“Oh… heh, yeah. Probably shoulda warned you about that.”

“Got me right in the… well, you know.”

“Aw, I’m sorry about your well-ya-know.” Scout’s trying to repress a grin.

“You snore, too.”

“Really?”

“Yep. And at one point you were talkin’ in your sleep.”

“No way!”

Sniper’s face is deadpan serious. “You do. You were snorin’ real loud and talkin’ about how rainbows make you cry.”

Scout stares at him, baffled speechless and terribly embarrassed.

Sniper holds his expression for a moment longer, then without warning, bursts into wheezing laughter and slaps his thigh. “I’m just pullin’ your tit, mate! You don’t do anythin’ but kick. And you didn’t even kick me in the _important_ place.”

Scout feels his ears get red hot. “Next time I _will_ kick you there for freakin’ me out like that!”

Sniper just chuckles into his coffee.

Pouting, Scout crosses his arms and huffs.

“Aw, I didn’t mean to upset ya. C’mere, you.” Setting his coffee aside on a crate at the end of the couch, he slings an arm around Scout’s shoulders. “Sleepin’ next to you… well, sleepin’ _under_ you was a good choice.”

Scout exaggerates his pout, clearly no longer upset.

Fortunately for both of them, Sniper knows exactly what Scout wants to hear. “It’s nice feelin’ how _totally ripped_ you are.” He bites back a chuckle at the borrowed terminology.

Scout’s eyes light up. “Consider yourself lucky,Snipe. Not many people are lucky enough to get so close to such a _perfectly masculine specimen_ _…”_   With no subtlety, Scout flexes.

“Perfectly adorable specimen is more like it.”

“Well, if I’m _so_ adorable…” Scout turns to face Sniper more directly, and puckers up his lips cartoonishly. “Gimme a kiss.”

Sniper smiles wider than Scout’s ever seen and leans in for a smooch. His stubble is terribly scratchy and Scout is definitely in need of some chapstick, but to them, it’s perfect.

Then, somewhere in the distance, far off from the cabin, metal rattles loudly.

Scout shoves Sniper off of him unceremoniously. “A train! Holy crap, _finally!”_ Stumbling over himself, he leaps up and runs to a window to watch. Sure enough, a BLU cargo train is about to pass by the cabin, carrying car after unlabeled car of the most generic shipping containers imaginable.

Sniper checks his watch. “So they go by on Wednesdays at 9:15 AM, huh?” He meets Scout at the window just as the engine cruises past, trying to see if any of the cargo has its contents named. “That’s a relief. Now we don’t have to go back to the base empty-handed.”

“Ugh, yeah, that woulda _sucked._ Then the Admin would think we were just slackin’ off the whole time.” He turns to Sniper and smirks. “Kissin’ ya must be good luck.”

Sniper just laughs and pulls him in close. “I’m already the luckiest man in RED.”


End file.
